 | CHAPTER XV.
THE SAIL-BOAT “NANCY.” The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE SAIL-BOAT “NANCY.”
“Have you never, O friend, who now readest these unworthy
lines, abandoned for a time your city life, with its noise
and bustle, and eternal striving, and locking up with your
into that bright lowland, which the James flows proudly
through, a band of silver wavering across a field of emerald?
Have you never sought a sensation finer, emotions fresher,
than city triumphs and delights—and, leaving for a time
your absorbing cares and aspirations, trusted yourself to the
current, like a bark, which takes no prescribed course, stops
at no stated place, but suffers the wind and the stream to
bear it whithersoever they will, well knowing that the wind
cannot waft it, the tide cannot bear it, where the blue sky
will not arch above, the fresh, waving woods will not mirror
their tall trunks and fine foliage in the serene surface?
Have you never sailed along that majestic river, with its
sentinel pines, and wood-embowered mansions, and bright
ripples breaking into foam, when the west wind, blowing
freshly, strikes against the tide, surging for ever from the
sea? Go, on an October day, when the white clouds are
shattered by the breezes of the Atlantic—those breezes still
redolent with the perfumes of the tropics,—and telling of
their long travel over lands of unimagined beauty and undreamed-of
splendor—go on one of those clear, sunny days
of the early autumn, when the waters ripple like molten silver
agitated by the breath of the Deity; when trees are
crimson, and blue, and golden, like the myriad silken
banners which erewhile flouted the deep heaven before
Tamerlane; when the wave laps upon the shore, and silences
the whisper of the pines with its monotonous and dreamy
music; where the water-fowl sleep upon the surge, or extend
their broad wings above the glittering foam, to strike the
quick-darting prey their keen eyes have descried;—go on
some day when the white sail of some sea-bound bark bellies
in the wind, and her prow cuts the silver, dashing into foam
the bright sunlit waters; or when glorying in the fine season,
and in his momadic, careless lot, the fisherman spreads
his small lateen sail, and feels his bark bound beneath him
like a sea-gull tossed upon the waves—when, trusting to Providence
to guide his course, he drops the paddle he has been
plying, carelessly, and with closed eyes, dreams in the broad
sunlight of the past and future. Go, on one of these days, and
gliding over the swaying billows of the great stream, see if
there is not yet some fresh delight in this our human life—
day did Beatrice Hallam leave the town of Williamsburg,
with her father, and bend her steps toward the stream.”
Thus far, the author of the MS., in that rhetorical and
enthusiastic style which every where characterizes his works.
Let us descend from the heights of apostrophe and declamation
to the prose of simple narrative.
Beatrice had received the assurance of her father, that
she should spend a day upon the waters, with a delight
which may readily be imagined. She was a pure child of
the wilderness, in spite of the eternal claims which an artificial
civilization, an inexorable convention, laid to her time
and thoughts. She rejoiced in the forest, and on the hills:
—we have seen her riding out fearlessly to drink in the
fresh splendor of the autumn—now she anticipated a delightful
day upon the river. Mr. Effingham would not be there,
with his insulting advances, his intolerable drawl, his irritating
airs of superiority and patronage. She would have the
whole day to herself. She had no performance to neglect
—no rehearsal to go to. She was free for the day wholly.
Beatrice was an excellent rider, and she chose this mode
of reaching the river, in preference to the light calash,
which the manager suggested. The good-humored old fellow
yielded at once, and mounting a stout cob, instead of
installing his corpulent person in the comfortable vehicle,
they set forth—the young girl riding her favorite white
horse. They reached the bank of the stream without incident,
and found the boatman, to whom a message had been
sent on the night before, ready to receive them. He gathered
up his fishing lines with the ease of a practised hand,
placed in the pocket of his peajacket the inseparable black
flask of rum, and led the way to his little vessel. It was
one of those light and airy barks, which obey the hand of
the helmsman, as the body of the seabird runs with the
movement of the wings, or turns obedient to the red, webbed
feet; and soon it was gliding over the water, borne onward
by a fresh wind, which filled the small triangular sail, toward
the fishing ground.
Beatrice, with clasped hands and dancing eyes, drank in
the splendor of the beautiful day. Her cheeks filled with
blood, her parted lips assumed an inexpressible softness and
an Indian once more in his native wilds!—never had she
looked more beautiful, more fascinating. She laughed, ran
on with childlike merriment in her voice and eyes; dipped
her fingers with affected shivering in the foam before the
prow, and startled the wild sea-gulls with her cries and
laughter. She was a child again, and the manager said as
much to her.
“Oh!” cried the young girl, her whole countenance
radiant with joy aud pleasure, “you can't think, father, how
happy I feel out here on the water!” I'm nothing but a
child, you know, and I always shall be. Look at that bird
with the white wings; how he darts over the waves!”
The manager smiled.
“It's a shame to keep you where there are any houses,
child,” he said, “you are never half as happy as this—in
London, or any where.”
“I can't be, sir.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I feel so cramped where people are. They stare
at me, and make me feel badly; and often when I pass, I
hear them say who I am, and laugh.”
“That's because you act well.”
“Oh, don't talk about acting now, father, please. I don't
want to think of it. I'm so happy! Look at the pretty
foam!”
“Yes—you love the water.”
“Oh, dearly! you didn't know how I spent the evenings
on the ocean, while you were playing ombre with Captain
Fellowes.”
“Commander of the merchant-vessel `Charming Sally,'”
laughed the manager; “but how about your evenings?”
“Oh, I used to go and lean over the—what are they
called?”
“Bulwarks.”
“Yes, the bulwarks. I used to lean over, and look at
the foam, and the great fish tumbling about in the moonlight,
for hours. It was delightful!”
The fresh face lit up with a childlike delight, as the
young girl spoke.
“Very romantic,” said Mr. Hallam, smiling.
“Oh, I'm not romantic, sir, I'm the most matter-of-fact
person in the world, but I couldn't help liking the foam.”
“You are right—but we old fellows like tictac better
than moonlight thinking.”
“Yes—I used to think: I recollect I did think.”
“What of?”
“Of the beautiful land we were coming to—Virginia:
the Virgin Land, they called it. How pretty that
sounds!”
“Yes.”
“A fresh, bright land, where the wind was always blowing,
the trees always full of leaves and flowers, and no cold
winter to chill one.”
“A young poet!”
“No, no, father—I must have been born in the south,
though. Oh, tell me where I was born. You never told me.”
The manager looked somewhat embarrassed, and replied,
after a moment's silence: “We were at Malta, then, I believe.
But how did you find Virginia in reality?”
The young girl's face assumed a sorrowful expression,
and she replied: “Not very different from England, sir;
but it is pretty, the forest and all, and this river. Oh!”
she cried suddenly, “look at that bird carrying off the fish
in his talons—stop, sir, stop!”
Mr. Hallam laughed heartily. “What would they say
if they heard Juliet calling after a sea-bird so. Mr. Effingham
would not believe the account.”
“Oh, father!” said Beatrice, returning to her sorrowful
expression, “do not talk to me of playing to-day, I feel so
happy now, sir; and don't speak of that wild young man;
I shall get angry, and then be sorry, and cry—and you
know, father, that would spoil our day. Don't speak of
Mr. Effingham; he looked at me so, last night, with his
eyes on fire, and his frill crumpled and torn—I thought it
was stained with blood.”
“With blood!”
“He became angry with me for not attending to him on
the stage, in the last act, and clutched his breast with his
nails. Oh, don't speak of him,” she added, growing gloomy,
“I do not like that man.”
“Well, well,” said the manager, “don't think too hard
marry well, much as I will lose in you; and you may find
a mate in Virginia. There, don't look so distressed.”
“I don't want to marry!” said Beatrice, her face
clouded over.
“You don't like playing?”
“Oh, no! but I have you, father, and I don't wish to
part from you. I can bear all.”
“There now, dear, don't lose your bright smiles, and
spoil the day. We will talk no more of these matters.
Sink the theatre!” added the manager good-humoredly,
“we came out to fish.”
“At the ground, squire,” said the boatman. “Go it.
I'll keep the craft straight.”
And soon the bright fish were being drawn up from the
water in numbers which would have afforded delight to
Isaac Walton, much as that worthy gentleman dwelt upon
brook-sides and art in snaring the solitary trout. They
spent the greater part of the morning thus, and Beatrice
forgot her gloom completely.
About noon the wind began to grow fresher, and large
clouds rolled themselves up from the western horizon, and
spread their dark curtain over the sun. The boatman
looked at them with an experienced eye, then turning to the
manager, said: “Look here, squire; seems to me we're
goin' to have a storm. Them clouds look like it; and hear
the wind!”
In fact the forest on each side of the river began to toss
its boughs and roll aloft that wild, surging sound which the
wind wakes up in its passage through tall trees. The pines
waved in the chill blast, and roared like great organs; and
in addition to these threatening sounds, the waves began to
roll higher, tossing the little bark like a nutshell, and
sprinkling the white lateen sail with snowy foam.
“I believe you are right, and we had better get to
shore.”
“We're a mile from the cabin, squire, but this west
wind will carry us down like a flash. Must I tie the sail?”
“Oh, let's wait a little, father,” cried Beatrice, with
animated looks and bright eyes, “the wind is so grand.
Oh, don't tie the sail yet!”
“The wind'll tear it to tatters if it keeps crackin' it so,
miss,” said the boatman; “but I'm willin', for I'm goin'
to do all I'm wanted to do. I ain't goin' to deny your
pretty face any thing.”
With which words the honest boatman laid down tranquilly
in the stern of the bark, and—first taking a pull at
his black flask—applied himself to the task of keeping the
craft before the wind. Mr. Hallam had yielded to this
arrangement, but was plainly desirous of returning immediately.
He opened his mouth to say as much, but Beatrice
interrupted him before he could speak.
“Oh, listen, father!” she cried, starting up and steadying
herself by clinging to the slight mast; “listen to the
woods! The wind roars through them like the cannon we
heard at Dover! How sublime it sounds! And look at
the waves; they are beginning to grow black, I believe, and
they toss us about like a cork! Oh, how the wind sobs and
rolls along! It makes me so happy!”
“Take care, miss!” said the boatman; “that mast is
unsteady.”
“Oh, don't be afraid for me.”
“Come, let us get to shore at once,” said Mr. Hallam,
becoming really alarmed.
“That's easy, sir,” said the boatman; “with the sail up
the wind'll carry us down in a jiffy. Don't be afraid of upsetting.
The Nancy never served me such a trick, and
won't now, though there is a wind, squire; it's coming worse,
too, but there's no danger.”
And he caught the rope, which the wind was cracking as
a man cracks a whip, and, with a vigorous hand, secured it
to the gunwale. The effect was instantaneous. The little
bark, which before had merely danced about on the waves,
now shot down the stream like lightning, cleaving the waves
which struck it, and shipping clouds of foam.
Beatrice hailed this accession of speed with delight.
Her ardent and impressible nature rejoiced in the hurly-burly
of the wind, the speed of the bark, the foam of the
high waves wetting her at every instant.
“Oh, it's delightful, father!” she cried. “I could
shout for joy! Look at that little boat, there, with the man
in it so quiet and easy—it jumps about like a dry leaf!”
The boat, indeed, which the young girl was looking at,
did seem to be of no more strength than a leaf. It was a
frail little canoe, scarcely large enough it seemed to hold a
child, and beautifully built. The sides were painted with
great taste, and the prow ran up in a curving point, which
dashed aside the foaming water like a steel blade. In the
stern of the canoe a young man was seated, holding in his
hand a paddle, with which he both propelled and guided the
skiff on its path toward the shore. The young man seemed
to be no stranger to such storms as the present, and, without
paying any attention to the foam which broke over him, looked
intently at the sail-boat.
“Oh, how it darts!” cried Beatrice; “look, the wind
struck it then, and it jumped out of the water!”
“Take care, miss!” cried the boatman; “if she veers
you'll fall overboard!”
“Take care, my daughter!” echoed Mr. Hallam; “there
is a tremendous gust of wind coming right down. Get
down!”
“Steady!” cried the boatman; “this is a roarer; take
care of the mast, miss! Sit down!”
It was too late. Beatrice made a movement to obey, but
before she had regained her seat, and while she yet clung to
the mast, the frail pole bent beneath the powerful blast, the
sail almost doubled up, and the spar snapping like a reed,
precipitated the young girl into the stream. A huge wave
bore her ten feet from the bark in an instant, and, passing
over her, swallowed the fair form in its gloomy depths.
The fat manager was struck motionless with horror, and the
boatman, dropping his paddle, leaped into the stream. But
another saviour was before him. The young man in the
skiff had approached within a stone's throw of the sail-boat,
when the gust struck her, and his canoe was darting directly
across the wake of the bark when the mast snapped. At the
same moment he seemed to have recognized the young woman—and,
uttering an exclamation which was drowned in
the shrill blast, threw himself into the waves, and catching
her half-submerged form as she rose, struck out with the
ease of a practised swimmer.
Beatrice was a dead weight on his arm, and he soon felt
that exhaustion which the strongest swimmer experiences,
ingulf a giant. The boatman, swimming with the wind
and foam blinding him, could not come to his assistance—
the two forms struggled with the devouring waves in vain
—a huge billow passed over the young man's head, and he
sank, clasping to his heart the chill form of the girl. As he
rose for the last time, one of those providences which watch
over us, giving the lie to chance, was the means of his salvation.
His shoulder struck against the boat, which had been
swept to the spot by the wind; and, as he caught its gunwale,
he felt the body of the young girl weigh less upon
him. He was taken into the sail-boat, he knew not how—
he saw a woman whom he had saved lying lifeless before
him—a rude boatman chafing her temples—a corpulent
man weeping and still grasping a billet of wood with which
he had plunged into the waves—and then he fell exhausted,
overcome.
The first words which he heard when he came to himself,
were:
“Well, squire, she's all right now: only a little wetting.
Here we are at neighbour Waters', and that's his son, that
saved the young woman.”
| CHAPTER XV.
THE SAIL-BOAT “NANCY.” The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion | |